Fade to Black
by MaeCrowe
Summary: In which John is heartbroken, Sherlock is scared to love, Molly is a sweetheart, Greg tries to be the voice of reason, Jim is a manipulative shit, Sebastian is his ensnared puppet, Harry is traumatized, Clara struggles to come to terms with who she is, and Irene only cares about the school production. [Full Summary below Author's Note]
1. Author's Note

I recently finished working on an original novel and a series of short stories and am in the "set aside" phase for a good month before I start editing all that craziness. I have never tried to write a long fanfiction piece (with the exception of a next gen Harry Potter fic), but decided to give it a go. And despite most of the things I write being cracky and written solely for myself, this whole thing is basically a shit ton of complexity and dark pasts and presents to improve my characterization skills and attune to weaving more complex characters. As is such, some of this will almost certainly be at least slightly OOC compared to the traditional characterizations we know and love. Keep in mind, however, the differences in past experiences, age, and everything else that has been altered for this AU.

Also, I would like to thank my friends over on the Sherlock Amino App for their excitement and encouragement when I pitched this idea to them. Honestly, guys, I hope this lives up to your expectations. This whole thing is dedicated to every single one of you who read the preview and felt the same excitement I did when I came up with this painful idea that I will probably proceed to kill myself over in the next few weeks. Seriously, this is the darkest thing I've ever written that isn't in a medieval or dystopian setting. As is such, many of the issues our characters face are issues that happen everyday out there in the real world. _**Trigger warnings will be posted at the beginning of each chapter. Please read them for your own peace of mind, especially if you know that you're triggered by certain scenarios.**_

On that note, most of the recurring characters have their own specific issue on which every one of their subsequent levels is based, at least on some level. I intend to intersperse a bit of fluff throughout to give myself a bit of a break, but depending on how sadistic I'm feeling, that might not happen recurringly. Basically what I'm saying is know what you're getting into and save yourself while you can. It's too late for me, but maybe you can still survive.

Full summary below.

With love,

Mae

PS: This is loosely inspired by Mianarazta's _Just His Kind of Day_ and started out as me wanting to write something where John was a teenage actor going back to school. Then shit hit the fan and I was caught up in the storm. There is no other way to put it.

* * *

John Watson is a rising actor with nothing but fame in his future. But when tragedy strikes on the set of his most recent film, he decides it's time to take a break from all the drama of stardom and finish his last year of school as a normal kid. Too bad Reichenbach Secondary School contains far more drama than a million soap operas combined. Who knew being a normal kid meant all this stress and pain?

Home life is better than it used to be, but it's far from perfect. After Mum's union with James Moriarty, John has to adapt to being a big brother to the professor's eccentric son, Jim, an obsessive sadist impassioned with notions of manipulation and control. And Harry, it seems, still hasn't forgiven him for escaping the hard hand of their late father without her when he had the chance.

Besides, no one at school wants to treat him like just another student. He's got girls following in his wake, boys wanting to be his friends, teachers offering him special treatment and…

The beautiful, brilliant enigma that is Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock is working through demons of his own, still recovering from an abusive ex-boyfriend who did nothing but humiliate him and quaking under the pressures of Mummy's expectations. His only release is dance, his only true friend found within his partner. But Molly has her boyfriend now, and while he seems generally accepting of Sherlock and has protected him multiple times, the young dancer has trouble accepting that the rugby captain truly wants the best for him.

The last thing he needs is for a bigheaded actor to come in swinging, tearing down his walls with something as simple as a friendly smile. If there's one thing Sebastian Wilkes taught him, it's that caring is not an advantage. Besides, there's no way John Watson, teenage heartthrob, is gay.

Join our boys as they are submerged in drama to their teeth, forced to unite when a student shows up dead one night, as they fight through internal evils and far more tangible forces. And maybe, if they're lucky, they'll find an inner light within each other.

 ****In which John is heartbroken, Sherlock is scared to love, Molly is a sweetheart, Greg tries to be the voice of reason, Jim is a manipulative shit, Sebastian is his ensnared puppet, Harry is traumatized, Clara struggles to come to terms with who she is, and Irene only cares about the school production.


	2. Chapter One

_**Welcome to the awkward phase where the author wants to get into something more interesting but has to write the characters meeting first, so she does it half-assed and doesn't look back. Also, I typically write Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson with some redeeming value, but I decided to be a shithead for this one. ;***_

 _ **Child abuse and an abusive relationship are alluded to, but not in so many words. In addition, Mummy is a homophobic asshole.**_

* * *

"Did you hear the news?"

Sherlock glanced up at his lab partner as a single drop of water fell to join the purple concoction sizzling in his petri dish. Molly was all giggles behind her safety goggles, practically bouncing in place. It was unlike her to be so unfocused, especially in chemistry, so he simply frowned at his friend before turning back to his experiment with a hum, still watching her out of the corner of his eye. "New student?"

The girl's face fell slightly. "It's no fun when you do that!" she huffed, though there was a twinkle in her warm brown eyes that told him she was joking, no intending to cause offense as so many did. "Final year, homeschooled until now," she breathed, eyes full of a whimsical wonder, glazing over as she stared off into the distance. "The homeschooled ones are always so nice."

"If my memory serves me correctly, and it usually does, I'm certain that you have a boyfriend at the current point in time." He smirked, cocking an eyebrow in her direction as he straightened. "You don't strike me as the type to play games, Molly Hooper, and as you know, I am rarely wrong. Besides, you're the school's naive little virgin. Unless you're attempting to overthrow Irene's record for the most separate shags in a week, in which case I must inform you that you will need a new dance partner, as I refuse to engage-"

"I know you hang out with Irene every weekend I spend with Greg, you utter prat," Molly sneered, rolling her eyes. "And besides, don't you dare compare me to her or _you'll_ be needing a new lab partner when I get banned from the classroom for pouring acid in your stupid hair."

Sherlock gave an involuntary huff, glaring at the fuming girl as he pushed his fringe aside with his wrist. _Funny how you used to beg me to touch it,_ he thought, but outwardly, his lips curled into a mischievous smirk. "My mistake. Would you rather I compare you to Sally Donovan?"

The pair shuddered in unison. For the past two years, Donovan had been involved with the woodshop teacher. And to make matters worse, Mr. Anderson was a married man with a wife on bedrest at home. Cancer, Sherlock knew. And to top it all off, Donovan actually had the audacity to _brag_ about it. Dear God, celebrate being an idiot man's fucktoy! It was utterly pointless, and Sherlock had no tolerance for any of it.

Sherlock was never able to stomach people like Sally and Mr. Anderson, even if he did have a certain respect for Irene Adler despite her well-advertised sexual exploits. He supposed the difference was the sheer existence of Mrs. Sylvia Anderson, who likely deserved none of it, a normal woman with an emotionally abusive and twisted husband, while Irene's secret girlfriend knew of and didn't mind her various one-night stands. Lust to the point of hurting people, it just wasn't something that sat well with him, especially after… No, he had already paid for that mistake, and it wasn't one he'd be making again anytime soon.

"Seriously, though. Have you heard anything? Maybe from your mum's friends? It seems like the kind of thing at least one of them would have finger in. Local gossip and all that."

Sherlock didn't bother to tell Molly he stopped even trying to listen in since Mummy had begun trying to set him up with one of her friend's daughters a few months ago although she very well knew his preference. _Can't have a nasty cocksucker defiling the family name,_ his mind supplied snidely. _Suppose she thinks just because it went wrong with Seb that I'll want a girl now._

They didn't talk about Sebastian at home, even though Mummy knew exactly what went down. She showed very little concern when the nature of their relationship was exploited by Mycroft, instead preferring to view it as a gift, something to drive her youngest son away from his unacceptable ways. It was Mycroft who tried to sit his brother down and get him help, help that had been adamantly refused. He learned his lesson; he didn't need some trick cyclist reminding him of what happened the one time he deemed to let his guard down. Love was unreliable, and a force he wouldn't be tinkering with again, thank you very much.

"I don't pay much attention to what they say, in all honesty," Sherlock supplied mildly, returning his attention to their lab station. "Though if past experience is anything to go by, this new face will likely be introduced in each of his classes, so word will spread-"

"May I have your attention, please?" There was a rustling as the entirety of the class - sans Sherlock, who had almost expected the interruption - turned to look at their teacher. Whatever was so exciting about new students, Sherlock never understood. They'd find their niche in a few days, and everyone not in it would forget they exist. Boring. He moved to fill his pipette once more, disregarding everybody else as Dr. Stamford continued. "I am pleased to announce that we have a new student joining us here at Reichenbach Secondary School. I expect you all to take it upon yourself to make him feel welcome here and to represent our school at it's best."

Whispers filtered through the room, and Sherlock felt his ire rise. It was just a new student, not a zoo animal! For God's sake, the intruder was likely frightfully dull, just as nearly everyone else at the school was. After all, he was just a teenage boy, and it wasn't as though-

"Hello, everybody. It's nice to meet you all."

The words cut off his train of thought in a mere second - no, that was inaccurate, not the words, the _voice._ A familiar voice in an unfamiliar setting that had even Sherlock gripping the edge of the counter in shock, pipette falling to the ground with an unheard _thud,_ contents leaking out onto the time floor of the chemistry lab. Slowly, with a calculated gaze and a thumping heart, he turned to face the front of the classroom.

There, the portly, spectacled form of Dr. Stamford was joined by a tall man in a suit and a decidedly shorter young man with blonde hair, cobalt eyes, a shy smile, and a familiar face. He donned a frankly terrible dust-blue jumper with well-worn jeans and brand new track shoes. His posture was well-practiced, but there was a stiffness about him, almost as though he was nervous and trying not to let it show.

"Oh my God," Molly muttered beside him, eyes locked on the specimen as much as anyone else. "Is that-?"

"John Watson," Sherlock breathed, hardly daring to move. Whispers danced through the room, yet the lab was almost unbearably silent. He watched as Watson swallowed, face reddening as he studied his feet. The suited man - who was also vaguely familiar - placed a hand on the young man's shoulder, bending slightly to confide in his… Employer? Charge? Watson gave him a firm nod, and the man rose. With one last worried look over his shoulder - probably charge, then - he exited the room, and Stamford stepped a bit closer to Watson.

"John, would you like to tell everyone about yourself?"

Sherlock had to suppress a snort at that. Oh hell, Watson was a legend, and he likely knew it. What business a big-name actor had at in a little off-the-map town at substandard school with peeling paint and jamming lockers, he could only begin to imagine. Everyone here knew his name; there was no way he wasn't aware and no way he wouldn't use the knowledge to his advantage.

But Watson stepped forward all the same, slowly looking up at his gaping audience with a tentative smile. A pink tongue darted from his mouth, wetting his lips, and Sherlock could have sworn he heard at least half of the girls sigh, grating on his nerves.

"Um, my name's John Watson, and I'm seventeen. I, uh, just moved to Reichenbach with my mum and stepdad. I have a twin and a younger step-brother, and I enjoy mystery novels and outdoor activities." Watson's face flushed pink, and he smiled almost apologetically. "I figure most of you know that I have a history as an actor in a few films, but I'd like to ask you not to treat me any different than any other new student. I…" His eyes flickered down to his feet again, and he swallowed. "That is all."

The uncertainty threw Sherlock off a bit, as there was absolutely no reason a young man who was used to interviews and pushy journalists should have this much trouble speaking to a couple of teenagers. He cocked his head to the side, studying Watson keenly. There was something in his eyes, something in his posture, the way he carried himself… It was too early to be drawing any conclusions, especially when the subject was an actor who could quite possibly just be looking for attention. His eyes narrowed. Yes, he'd have to be careful with this one.

Dr. Stamford looked at the boy with a sad smile, as though pitying him for something only he knew about. "Very well, John. Everyone already has lab partners, so I'll let you chose your group next time around, once you've gotten to know everybody. You can just observe for now if you wish. I understand Mr. Turner has brought you up to code on everything you've missed this year?" John nodded, averting his gaze once more. "Good; I'd hate for you to come in without the background knowledge. If you ever need anything, don't be afraid to ask."

The grimace on John Watson's face told him everything he needed to know.

There were many things Sherlock hated about Reichenbach Secondary - the people, the color scheme, the schedule, the curriculum, the classes - but there was very little he hated more than lunch time. The cafeteria was noisy, full of idiots, and Molly always sat with Greg and his rugby mates, who, by the way, Sherlock couldn't stand. The food was frankly revolting, coming from a kid who practically subsided off of shitty takeaway and coffee.

That was why he worked out a deal with Miss Turner, English teacher and close friend to his ballet instructor. She was one of the few teachers who accepted his eccentricities, found them endearing, and didn't force him to do anything that made him uncomfortable. Namely, she didn't force him to interact with other people his age. That was part of the reason she allowed him to eat in her classroom, so he could avoid the annoyance of the cafeteria. In return, he helped her grade papers and sort and label her books.

So when he stepped into the room with his bag, Sherlock was not pleased to find John Watson sitting in the corner, staring at his hands as Miss Turner addressed him. "John, dear, you know Dawson and I are here for you, even if you can't talk to your mother about this. And Mrs. Thompson-"

"I told you, I don't need help." Watson's voice cracked as he spoke, and he winced. "Just because I'm not eating doesn't mean I'm depressed. I'll eat when I'm hungry. I can handle myself; I always have. It happened, okay? I'm over it. End of story." He turned his head aside and lay on the desk, and while Sherlock was no expert on human emotions, there was no way the boy hadn't been lying about… whatever it was they were discussing. Curious. At length, he cleared his throat. Both of the others turned to look at him in surprise.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Miss Turner hurried over and fussed with his shirt for a moment before pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Sit down, sit down! Have you met John yet? Dawson asked if he could join us until the novelty wears off."

From across the room, Watson caught Sherlock's eye, back stiff and a tension in his expression as though he feared the other boy, what he might say. Sherlock merely studied him a few moments, and what he found surprised him. _Hasn't had a good night's sleep in weeks, uncomfortable with home life, mangled relationship with brother, signs of malnutrition, left-handed, intermittent tremor._ Interesting.

In the end, he gave the older boy a brief nod. "Sherlock Holmes. We have Advanced Chemistry together. I assume the man who accompanied John was your brother?" The last phrase he aimed at Miss Turner, who smiled fondly.

"Dawson has travelled with John as his guardian since he started out," she answered, throwing the other boy an equally fond smile as she moved to stand behind him, hand on his shoulder. "That's why when John wanted to return to school, Dawson suggested Reichenbach. Poor boy could use some support." She ruffled Watson's hair in a manner Sherlock was all too familiar with.

"Alice…" he muttered, cheeks pinkening.

"It's Miss Turner at school, young man," the woman chastised, though there was a smile on her face. "Sherlock, darling, do you mind keeping John company while I go make a phone call? It's bad manners to leave a guest alone, you know."

Sherlock shrugged as he sat down at his usual seat, indifferent. While he still wasn't certain Watson could be trusted, his readings on the boy sparked an interest he knew he wouldn't be able to resist. True mysteries were so few and far between in Reichenbach; the distraction was welcome. Miss Turner gave the two of them a slight look of unease before nodding firmly and stepping out of the room. Sherlock turned his attention to his packed lunch, feeling Watson's eyes on him as he fidgeted in the corner. Good Lord, could he be more obvious?

"If you're going to say something, for God's sake, say it already."

Watson flushed again, and God, would he stop _doing_ that? Licking his lips, he gave Sherlock a contemplative look. "Sherlock, was it? You know Dawson?"

Oh. That was what was bothering him. Well, no, Sherlock knew there was more to it than that, likely his disregard for Watson's status, his outwardly indifferent evaluation of the other boy. _Oh, John Watson, if only you knew the truth._ The naivety was almost adorable. Oh, well. Watson would learn about him soon enough. It might as well be from he himself.

"No," Sherlock confirmed, biting into his honey and strawberry jam sandwich and chewing slowly. "I simply put two and two together; Stamford introduced your guardian as Mr. Turner. It's a common enough name, but Miss Turner referred to a Dawson with familiarity. Relatives, then. From there it was simply a matter of aligning ages and features. Close enough in age, similar facial structure, red hair, dark eyes, but Miss Turner is far more petite than your guardian. Brother and sister made the most sense."

Watson blinked rapidly, staring at him. "You figured that out all on your own? Just like that?"

Sherlock shrugged, pulling the crusts off of his sandwich. "It's what I do. Given enough time and resources, I could tell you your life story. I'm already well on my way, and this is the first time I've had a chance to get a good look at you in a controlled environment without Molly clutching at my arm and fangirls swaying in place. By the way, if Sally Donovan approaches you, know that she's already in a rather sick and twisted relationship with the woodshop teacher."

Watson made a face at that, wrinkling his nose. "Good to know, ta, but I don't have any intention of dating anytime soon. I came back to school to graduate, not to be distracted by girls." A sad smile came upon his face as he glanced at Sherlock almost covertly. "And I bet most people here fancy they know my life. If only-"

"Not the way I know," Sherlock interrupted. Watson looked up at him in surprise, slight alarm stirring in his gaze. Sherlock simply waved off his fears. "No, I'm not a stalker. You've already heard my evaluation of your guardian, seen my methods. Do you really think I can't do that for you, too? Besides," he ran his eyes over Watson's form steadily. "I highly doubt the things I know are public."

"Okay. Prove it."

Alarms blared in Sherlock's mind as his head shot up to view a stout John Watson wearing a challenging look in his eyes. No, it wasn't right. It was different when he deduced innocent things and shared them, or deduced terrible things about terrible people, but he knew all too well what it meant to give someone granting him a rather accepting environment a rundown that they didn't deserve. It was the reason he typically kept his mouth shut about Molly, Greg, Miss Turner, and Mrs. Hudson. Irene was a sort-of friend, so she was different, but for the most part, no. He wouldn't reveal the worst and embarrass the few people who received him well. And thus far, Watson was receiving him quite well.

"John Watson, I am entirely sure you don't want to hear what I have to say."

"Nonsense," Watson persisted. "I'm asking you to do this; I won't get angry, if that's what you're worried about."

"But most people-"

"I'm not most people," Watson stated firmly. "Come on, what will it hurt?"

 _Far more than you think._ Sherlock sighed, giving Watson a precursory glance before rising and approaching him steadily. The actor smiled broadly at him, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, which were braced for… _No second guesses, just do it, get it over with, you're not getting out of this._

"Well, let's start with the obvious, shall we? You're primarily left-handed, although to some extent ambidextrous. You and your twin brother were quite close as children, but in recent years, your relationship has gone downhill, a fact you resent and blame yourself for, having left home for so long. You're struggling to make amends, but so far, you've been unsuccessful. You've lived with Dawson Turner throughout your career, so being reunited with your family after so long is awkward and uncomfortable for you, even if you dearly love your mother and brother. You're still unsure of the new members, and feel bad for your doubts. If you're uncomfortable, of course, why did you bothering returning back? You were fairly successful as an actor, still in your prime. So what was it?

"You were working on an unannounced war drama when something traumatic occurred on set. The film was discontinued, kept hush-hush, and you decided the best way to deal with it was to separate yourself from the limelight for a time. Dawson Turner is worried about you, but doesn't want your mother to know the full extent of what happened, so he sticks around. You have an intermittent tremor in your left, and you've been having nightmares since the incident, as well as certain difficulty stomaching food. You're scheduled to see the school counselor, but don't think it will help. Am I wrong?"

Watson blinked, mouth hanging open slightly. "H-How did you know all that?"

Wordlessly, Sherlock reached out to grab his arms, laying them out on the desk. "You have writing calluses on both hands, though more prominent on your left. Your bracelet was clearly made by a young child: Harry, it says. You wouldn't know your stepbrother enough yet, so it's from your twin. Why are you wearing it then? The answer is simple: sentiment. You feel estranged from your brother, so you wear the old friendship bracelet to feel closer to him, or perhaps to show him you do still care about him. I know about the film because of the dog tags under your shirt, a cheaper metal than actually used. Again, why would you wear them if not for sentiment? You were traumatized by what happened, but you don't want to forget. From there, it was easy to pick out individual symptoms."

Watson merely stared at him for a long moment, and Sherlock braced himself for the worst. No one liked having their dirty laundry laid out before them, and some of the things he just deduced… It was only a question of how exactly Watson would retaliate, what he would-

"That was brilliant."

Sherlock blanched, leaning back slightly. "W-What? You're not mad?"

"Of course I'm not," Watson beamed. "That was astounding. Yeah, I'd rather not people know, but even if you'd never tell me, you'd know, so no real harm done." He laughed wryly. "The teachers knowing is enough…"

"I won't tell anyone else," Sherlock assured him quickly. "I only spread my deductions around when people deserve it. You've done nothing to me, so I see no reason to spread the word. If it's any consolation, I don't know the specifics, and I won't ask." He frowned, cocking his head to the side. "Was I right? About all of it?"

Watson thought for a moment before holding up a finger. "There is one thing. I don't have a twin brother; I have a twin sister." He extended his right arm so Sherlock could see the bracelet better. "Harry's short for Harriet."

Sherlock drew back with a hiss, snapping his fingers. "Sister! There's always something!"

"Yeah, I suppose there is," Watson said with a laugh. Suddenly, his brow furrowed suspiciously as he leveled Sherlock with a long look, visibly contemplating. "Look, Sherlock, I know you said you wouldn't spread anything around, and I guess it's alright if you know since you don't know the specifics, but…"

"You don't believe me," Sherlock finished in a hush, expression falling. It wasn't as though such a reaction was unexpected, but it hurt all the same. He bit his lip and looked down at his feet when an idea struck. "Would it help if you knew one of my secrets? Mutual confidence?"

Eyes widening in alarm, Watson shook his head. "No, I didn't mean that at all! God, I'm sorry; I can't help it, it's just that-"

"Trust issues are nothing to be ashamed of, especially if you have good reason," Sherlock consoled, already digging a notepad out and jotting down an address in the corner. Ripping it out, he handed Watson the scrap. "Come to this address between four and seven this afternoon. I'll warn Molly you're coming."

"O-Okay," Watson sputtered, tucking the page away as his discomfort showed. Licking his lips, he cleared his throat loudly before trying to change the subject. "W-Who's Molly, then? Girlfriend?"

"Just a friend," Sherlock responded as the bell rang. He wrapped up his uneaten lunch and started for the door, when he thought the better of it and poked his head back inside. "If there's one thing I must entrust you with, John Watson, it's that girlfriends are not really my area." An untraceable force overcame him, and he gave the young man a wink. "Afternoon."

* * *

 ** _Next chapter will be John's POV with appearances from Molly, Greg, and potentially Jim depending on how many scenes I decide to do for the second chapter._**


	3. Chapter Two

_**This chapter went a whole lot smoother, and it shows. John's POV, introducing Greg and Molly a bit more. Still building up to the fun, painful stuff. Allusions to loss of loved ones and eating disorders, though again not in so many words.**_

* * *

He wasn't entirely sure what he expected. He hoped to be received well, and Dawson assured him he would be. For a while, he allowed himself to live within that delusion, but all too soon the time came to face the fact of the matter. He was not going to be treated the same as any other teenager. There would always be reminders of his claim to fame, a claim he'd much rather forget at the moment.

It wasn't that he hated his career - indeed, it served to save him from a thoroughly grim reality - but after _Afghanistan,_ he needed a break, mentally and physically. Between the injury in his left shoulder and the independent-minded ache in his leg, the doctors didn't want him stressing his body. As for the shrinks, well, they didn't want him stressing his emotions after what happened to the young man in the passenger seat on that fateful night.

The problem was, there were no _distractions._ He had nothing else to think about _except_ what happened, especially when every single person in the school was trying to be his friend or girlfriend. And it was only his first day, by God! What he wouldn't give for a nice, consuming project so he didn't have to think about how pathetic he had become, how everything he ever wanted was falling apart at the seams. It started with the car crash, but it hadn't ended there. John doubted he'd ever have a peaceful day again in his life, doubted he'd ever feel like everything was going the way it was supposed to.

That's what acting was supposed to do, fill that void. It was supposed to give him a sense of purpose, get him out of the house his father corrupted. It started out with the school drama department when he was ten, small parts that none of the older children could play. At twelve, the roles began getting bigger, and he began playing in community plays as well as those at school. By fourteen, by some miracle, Dawson Turner knocked on the Watson family door with a proposition in hand, and the rest was history. A few months later, he had a minor role in a television series, appearing here and there throughout. Soon after came his first film, and it was all uphill from there. Never once did he look back.

Perhaps that was part of the reason for his current family issues, especially his strained relationship with Harry. She accused him of abandoning her, forgetting she existed. The worst part was, John realized, she was right. He left his mother and sister to face his father on their own, only thinking about himself. He wasn't even there for the man's funeral when one night he finally passed out drunk and never woke up, despite having been between projects. He sent his condolences to his mother, and that was it.

And now there was a new father to deal with, one John had only met upon waking up in the hospital after that fateful night. James Moriarty was a decent enough man, even if his son gave John the creeps. He was a professor for an online university, occasionally heading out to some obscure school to give a live presentation or submit one of his case studies. His wife had died in childbirth with their only son, Jim Moriarty, who oddly enough bore the name of his two stillborn brothers before him. John still didn't know what to think of Jimmy; thus far, the beady-eyed fourteen-year-old spent most of his time locked up in his room on perched on a chair in the corner of the living room taking notes on those morbid fairy tales he had such a fascination with. But John wasn't there to judge, and he tried to be kind to his step-brother, even if it wasn't always well-received.

The point was that life was utter shit. He didn't know where he belonged, where he fit in in this new reality he was being forced to adapt to. Even if it was for his own good, as both Dawson and his mother insisted, it was still a struggle and would likely continue to be.

Alice was nice enough to help him keep his distance from the other students, even if she was a tad overbearing. Then there was the fact that she conveniently forgot to mention the other boy who spent his lunch periods in her room and then left them alone together. But wasn't that boy a surprise.

Sherlock Holmes, John remembered. He doubted he could ever forget a name like that, a name just as unique as the face that bore it, and, from what he could tell, the person within. It was the name, the face, and the odd demeanor combined that summoned him here in the first place. He glanced down and double-checked the address. Yes, he was definitely in the right place.

He stood in front of a rather elegant building, a mural depicting various types of dance on the side. _Reichenbach Area Dance Studio,_ the sign read. Glancing around, John let out a small breath and mounted the steps, pushing the door open to enter.

The studio looked deserted, despite it being six o'clock, rather toward the end of the time zone Sherlock gave him, but well within it all the same. Those who were there were walking toward the exit with duffel bags in their arms and chatting amicably amongst themselves. John stepped back into the shadows slightly to avoid being noticed. Maybe Sherlock gave him the wrong time?

"Oi, you lost?"

John gave a start at the voice, turning to find a dark-haired boy in leathers smiling at him curiously. He recognized him as a student in his own year - Reichenbach truthfully wasn't that great in size - but was unable to match a name to the face. Deciding it didn't matter for the moment, he swallowed, feeling the tips of his ears go red as he handed the boy the scrap. "Um, maybe. I was asked to come to this address." He fidgeted as the young man glanced from him to the page.

"Well, you're in the right place," he humored, leveling John with a look. "Looking for anyone in particular?"

"Uh… Yes, actually, I am. Sherlock Holmes?"

At the name, the boy's eyebrows shot up. "Sherlock?" he repeated. John nodded, and his companion let out a thin hiss of breath between his teeth before summoning a strained smile. "I'm actually here to see him and his dance partner, myself; I can show you back if you want."

John sagged with relief, having pictured wandering from door to door in search for the strange young man with the sharp eyes. "Ta, mate. I don't know what I expected when he gave me the address, but I'm sure it wasn't anything like this." He gestured with a vague wave of his hand.

The boy snorted, smirk on his face. "That's Sherlock, for you. The kid's an enigma." He stuck out his hand. "Greg Lestrade."

"John Watson," he replied with a genuine smiling, clasping Greg's hand briefly. "But I'm sure you knew that."

"Word spreads" Greg agreed, looking him up and down with a blatantly assessing gaze. "Some people are going around saying you've got yourself a bloated ego, refusing to associate with anyone at school today, but you seem a right decent bloke to me, if a bit private. And Sherlock is a pretty good judge of character and seems to have given you his seal of approval, so…" He shrugged as though it settled the matter before starting off, gesturing for John to follow.

John watched the other boy out of the corner of his eye as they navigated the halls, vaguely aware that he was doing the same. Greg seemed incredibly contained and well-mannered compared to the others, and John rather suspected their mutual acquaintance wouldn't have associated with him if he was the type to get excited easily. Good judge of character, indeed, if first impressions were anything to go by.

The studio seemed to be empty by this point, the only sound their footsteps pressing on down the painted halls. Greg didn't seemed fazed by the barrenness, though, so he tried not to feel as though they were doing something they shouldn't be. Perhaps the later classes were deeper in the depths of the place. Yes, certainly that was it, he decided as his ears were graced with rapid classical music. Greg turned to shoot him a grin as he pressed the door open and stepped aside. The sight beyond took his breath away.

The short walls were lined with mirrors, the lights were dimmed, and the curtain was drawn. Yet there seemed to be more than enough light to view the wonder before him. There, moving just as fast as the music, so elegant, so exotic, was Sherlock Holmes, a thin sheen of sweat across his face and curls uncontrollable as he moved in time with his partner, a small, almost mousy girl with a long brown ponytail swirling in her wake, both with looks of deep concentration as though nothing existed but the two of them, the music, and the story it told. Together they were a hurricane, and John couldn't help but desire to be uprooted. And when the hurricane faded, he simply stood there, not knowing what to do.

Greg, meanwhile, was grinning ear-to-ear, clapping loudly. Sherlock and his partner (for the life of him John couldn't remember her name, only that she _wasn't_ Sherlock's girlfriend) spun around in near-unison, just noticing their audience. The girl broke out into a grin before throwing herself into Greg's arms, receiving a solid kiss on the cheek as he spun her around once. Sherlock, however, was standing with his eyes fixed on John, back straight and fists clenching and unclenching at his side. There was a strain to set his face, and he swallowed visibly as though waiting for…

 _Would it help if you knew one of my secrets?_

Oh.

Finally, John seemed to find his voice as he stood there, still studying the dancer's deer-in-the-headlights look. Slowly, he smiled. "That was brilliant," he breathed. "Amazing."

The look on Sherlock's face was uncertain, hesitant. His eyes were huge as he looked at John as

though thinking he would lash out at any given moment. "Y-You think so? Honestly?"

John stepped forward minutely, grin widening. "Absolutely. I've never seen anything like it. Truly breathtaking, if you ask me."

The young man's face went red as he looked to his feet. "Your praise is very much appreciated," he expressed in a calculated voice. "Dance is, after all, my one true love. As long as I have dance, my life is complete."

"Ah." So that was what he had meant about girlfriends not being his area; he didn't do relationships. It wasn't much of a surprise, John decided; he doubted anyone could match Sherlock in intellect, grace or beauty. No, he definitely bore the distinction of the aloof, cut-off, independent type. For the first time, John wondered just how poorly Sherlock was received by his peers that he spent lunch periods in Miss Turner's room and hid two of his arguably greatest traits that John had experienced so far.

A squeak sounded from the corner, and it took John a moment to figure out that it came from the mousy-looking girl, who was looking at him as though he walked on water. It was a look his was quite familiar with, and he was alright with it in a celebrity environment, but here, in the one-on-one sense, it wasn't the most comfortable of feelings. He swallowed tightly and glanced to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.

"John, this is my dance partner, Molly Hooper. Molly, this is John Watson."

"H-Hi," Molly stuttered, blushing profusely even as she clutched at Greg's arm. John responded with a feeble smile before throwing Sherlock a sideways glance.

"You said you were going to warn her."

Sherlock shrugged indifferently. "It's more entertaining this way."

John scoffed, rolling his eyes. Sherlock's personality was growing more and more apparent with each moment in his presence. "Of course it is. For you. This is what I've been trying to avoid all day, as you very well know."

"And how well has that worked out for you so far? Besides, you're going to have to face everyone at some point."

He opened his mouth to answer, but quickly shut it again upon seeing Sherlock's visage of amusement. The wanker was right, and he knew it; John was only delaying the inevitable. He shouldn't let it bother him, especially considering he was by no means ashamed of what he had accomplished these past years. Still, he didn't deserve the elevation they gave him. If they knew his whole story, they'd scorn him, turn away with disgust in their eyes as they readied their torches to send him to hell. And depending on who exactly it was, the reasons would be entirely different. He had to admit, he probably deserved it all, save one sentence of damnation. Sherlock seemed to read all this in his eyes and nodded smugly, turning away and into a door of to the side of the room. John simply stared, wondering how the same boy could be so timid one moment and so self-assured the next. Sherlock Holmes was a puzzle, to say the least.

Greg cleared his throat, and John was reminded he wasn't alone with the mystery boy. He offered the young man an apologetic look as he curled an arm around a still-gaping Molly's waist. "Sorry, Watson; Molls is a bit shy to begin with, and, well, you have that effect about you…" He gestured helplessly.

"John, please. Watson was my dad." _And heaven knows I don't want to be connected to him in more ways than I have to,_ he thought ruefully, a series of images flashing before his eyes before he locked them away in the back of his mind. _No, not now. Now's not the place._ "And Molly, you have no reason to be shy around me. Dawson used to scold me for being so personal with everyone." He gave a toothy grin, which Molly returned after a moment's hesitation.

By this point, Sherlock returned, tights gone and replaced with a pair of ridiculously tight skinny jeans that left nothing to the imagination and deep purple Converse. The only element of his dancing attire that remained was the thin muscle shirt stretching across his slim frame and contrasting sharply with his pale skin. A pair of duffle bags were slung over his shoulder, and he tossed the pink one at Molly's feet. "Glad to see you're all getting acquainted," he spouted. "Now, who's up for Italian?"

Half an hour later, John found himself pinned in a booth next to Sherlock, Molly and Greg sitting across from them in a small Italian restaurant about a five minute drive away from the studio. It seemed to be a regular occurrence for the three, as the waiter didn't both to ask before bringing out their usual drinks and appetizer, and John couldn't help but feel as though he was intruding. As it was, he kept his head down and his voice low, thankful for the lowlighting of the place.

"Sorry Pa is out tonight," their waiter, Lucca, by his nametag, apologized as he set their plates out in front of them. "Same discount as usual, and I'll bring out dessert later." Greg had asked John to share a stromboli, Molly was quietly content with her alfredo, and Sherlock merely looked in disgust at the suspiciously small salad set before him. He wondered vaguely if he wasn't the only one with an eating disorder. Then again, sitting here with a few people who weren't looking at him any differently than they looked at each other (Molly was quiet, but recovering from her shock), he managed to hold his own, vaguely aware that Sherlock was watching him with a smug look on his face, salad untouched. Well, now. That wouldn't do at all.

John poked Sherlock on the arm with his fork, gesturing to his plate. "Oi, you'd better eat that. I'm willing to bet you burned off half the weight you had this morning after such a long session, and you only picked at that sandwich of yours at lunch. You're skin and bones! Doesn't your mother feed you?"

All three of the table's other occupants stiffened simultaneously, turning to fix John with looks of shock. He fidgeted in his seat, swallowing hard. "It was just a joke," he muttered, averting his gaze. "I… I didn't mean anything by it, really. It's only he hasn't-"

"It's fine," Greg told him sternly before looking to Sherlock. "Sherlock Holmes, you bloody liar, you told Molly you had a good lunch. Buck up and eat. John," he licked his lips, gaze sharp, "care for some more?"

John took that as his sign to drop the issue, and he nodded, proceeding to pick at his stromboli as he pondered over their reactions. He hadn't meant it to be offensive; it fact, he couldn't see how it could be reasonably translated in that way at all. So, was Mrs. Holmes dead? Sick? Not around? Suddenly, he felt an ache in his chest, wishing he had never said anything. The only good thing was that Sherlock was eating under Greg's sharp gaze, and he was on his way to cleaning his plate.

Then Lucca dropped off a double chocolate plate and the veggies were forgotten.

"Sweet tooth, huh?" John chuckled as Sherlock promptly forgot his reluctance to eat, cutting himself a generous wedge of the chocolaty goodness. He let out a hum of assent before digging in, Greg rolling his eyes as he reached to cut a piece for Molly and himself. John cut himself a small piece, not sure how much he could handle, but still hungry for the first time it ages, and not at all thinking about-

He choked as the blue-grey eyes were summoned to his mind's eye, coughing as he reached for his water. Molly and Greg were both watching him with concern, and Sherlock had frozen with his fork suspended and mouth comically open, studying him carefully. He waved them off even as he continued to sputter, appetite suddenly gone. He offered his companions a weak smile as he wiped away the tears the coughing had induced. "Sorry, all. I guess my eyes are bigger than my stomach."

Sherlock let out a doubtful hum, but true to his word, he said nothing on the matter and returned focus to his own plate. John sat staring at his water, staring at the tiny tornado absentmindedly as he swirled it with his straw. He had gone all day without thinking too much about James, and now, of course, it hits him unexpectedly. Mum assured him he'd get over the loss of his friend, all he needed was time, but James was never truly just a friend, was he? Even at the start, he was so much more than that.

And now he was gone.

Suddenly needing to be alone, John sprang to his feet as best as he could while seated at the stationary table. "Look, I've had a great time tonight, but I need to head before Mum starts wondering where I am. She still thinks I'm the little boy I was when I left."

"Are you sure?" Greg prompted, looking concerned. "I could drive you home if you wait just a little while longer."

John shook his head. "No, I don't live too far away, and I'd hate to be a bother, really I would. M-Maybe next time, ya?" He cleared his throat, nudging the stiff figure beside him. "Sherlock? Can you let me out?"

Once again he was subjected to those fluid eyes upon him, studying, questioning, and John remembered his comment about not knowing the specifics. Suddenly fearful that his new friend would somehow manage to figure it all out, he nudged him again. "Come on, don't be thick."

For a split second, he thought his request was going to be denied, but then Sherlock surprised him by rising, eyes still fixed and steady. John patted his shoulder with a shy smile as he stepped out. "Ta, mate. I'll see you tomorrow."

It wasn't until he was walking down the lantern-lit street with his hands stuffed in his sweatshirt pockets that he realized he only said goodbye to the enigmatic genius.

* * *

 _ **Anyone feeling Jim next chapter? I sure am! Altering POVs will not be consistent, depending on the part of the story we're in, and our four main men will likely be Sherlock, John, Jim, and Seb in that respect, although I do plan on having some other POVs eventually. What can I say? Switching has always been my little writing quirk. c;**_


	4. Chapter Three

_**This chapter is a brief insight to Jim, and since it's rather short, I'm posting the next chapter at the same time. It will be an necessary introduction to Harry and Irene before the plot line proceeds and returns to our boys.**_

* * *

Jim stood in the upper limbs an old oak tree, leaning against the trunk as he watched a figure off in the distance. His hair was combed over, top buttons of his tan shirt hanging open as his brown leather satchel bounced against his dark pants. His polished brown shoes shouldn't have given him much traction on the wide lmb, but he had always had a knack for finding unobtainable hiding spots, so there was very little threat as far as he was concerned. He stared off into the distance as the figure drew closer.

"My, my, Johnny-boy, where have you been all evening?" Jim tsked, streetlamps casting a shimmering glow upon his step-brother's dusted blonde hair. He tossed a golden coin into the air and caught it, tilting it deliberately to reflect the light in the older boy's direction. John winced noticeable and held up his hand to block out the shine, but he didn't notice the dark haired fourteen-year-old lurking in the treetops.

Jim was all too aware of the actor's thoughts on him, although his concerns were by no mean unfounded. His father married Anne Watson around eight months ago, and yet he had only met John Watson two weeks back when Dawson Turner informed them they were moving, for John's own good. Naturally, Jim looked into whatever it was that could have compelled a successful young man to want to go back to school, finding only a short allusion to the death of a director's son. From there, it wasn't hard to figure James Sholto had been a love interest. Boring.

Except, no, not boring. There was nothing in the news about the film, or the death of a young man who was a celebrity in his own right. Suspicious causes, then? Perhaps something that would taint someone else's public persona? Jim hummed in consideration as John mounted the steps to the house and let himself in. He didn't know a lot on the matter, but he did know John didn't seem the type who could take a life without taking his own soon thereafter. Jim, after all, knew what that took, and John Watson didn't have it. And yet it was apparent that his "brother" blamed himself for the loss of his lover. How curious.

John Watson blamed himself for a lot of things, Jim soon found out. He blamed himself for Harriet's social issues, his mother's soft-spokenness, his father's death, the practically non-existent relationship between him and his stepbrother. It didn't bother Jim in the slightest; he had no reason to interact with Johnny-boy. It was his lover's death that made him interesting, and then only just because that wasn't really him, now was it? The other people at this school, however… He let out a slight hum, removing his phone from his pocket and scrolling through the pictures.

Naturally, moving meant reestablishing his connections, figuring out just who he could get to dance his little puppet dance with the right amount of incentive, just as he had been doing since he could talk. Father, of course, was none the wiser, for while the man was intelligent, his morals stood in the way of true excellence. Jim had no such hindrances.

The first picture was a scrawny, mocha-skinned young man with long hair tied back in a ponytail and an indiscreet band shirt. Normal home life, two older brothers, drug addiction, owed his current dealer a boatload of money, could easily be bought into service. Had a rebellious streak, overshadowed by his siblings. Worked as a freelance carpenter here and there.

The next was a slender, muscled boy with a wide grin and ruffled brown hair, a community center bag cast over his shoulder. Only child, spoiled, fairly popular, swimmer on the school team, in possession of steroids, though he still hadn't decided to use them or not. Had connections, that one, and connections came in handy.

A tall, elegant young woman with long dark hair a ruby red lips. Head of the school drama club, in an open relationship with her girlfriend, used sexual intimacy to get places. Homosexual, but not above manipulating young men with sex. Had a pressure point in her girlfriend and a rather strong preoccupation with the school production.

He grinned as the fourth and final picture rose. It was a bit faulty, more so than the others, as he had taken it at a greater distance. A muscular young man with dark hair and eyes, thick eyebrows, and a stern face, donning a camouflage jacket as he walked beside a slender girl with cropped hair and ratty sneakers. Sister, pressure point, he identified. Dead mother, father prone to neglect, had practically raised the girl on his own. Military aspirations, prone to taking orders, though capable of giving them. Smoker, car lover. Dashing. Intriguing.

Without warning, Jim broke out into a run along his limb, making the leap through his open window effortlessly. A pile of books, papers, and newspaper clippings occupied one corner of the room, a bureau lines up against the wall across from his bed, laptop lying atop his covers. Booting it up, he laid his phone out on his bed, linking the two with a converter. If there was one thing he was good at, it was writing computer code. Grinning from ear-to-ear, he uploaded his pictures to the program and waited as it generated matches.

Without surprise, the swimmer was first. Carl Powers, sixteen, captain of the swim team. Surprisingly well-behaved for a popular brat, with no records of drunkenness, drugs, or smoking. Mediocre grades, based on a Facebook status. A series of girlfriends, but none in the last few months. Likely an infatuation with one in particular, then; the girl was probably oblivious. Tedious.

The girl was next. Irene Adler, prone to going clubbing, dating Kate Cadenza, preacher's daughter, of all things and out of the closet. Drug Irene to a few church groups, by the look of it, the dark-haired young woman seemingly well-received by the blonde cherub's religious family for all except her sexual nature, a fact alluded to multiple times over the course of her page. She seemed to be a cunning, intelligent young woman, same year as Powers, head of her year, had a bit of a bad girl streak going.

Next was the druggie, a young man by the name of Jonah Hewitt, fifteen, no real additional information to what Jim had found out of his own accord, save his address.

But for the life of him, he couldn't find the name of his charming tiger. Sure, there were a few matches for his picture here and there, but nothing that provided a name. Jim hadn't expected him to have any form of social media, but he expected at least a mention on someone else's page, a caption on a photograph, maybe. But it seemed that Tiger had few close friends, and while he was on the rugby team, he only appeared in team photos or in the background, never captioned. Jim released a small hum of displeasure. Someone, it seemed, didn't see his precious tiger's untapped potential.

Eventually, Jim logged into the school website, clicking to the sports page and team listings. Whoever designed it, however, seemed not to care if anyone could identify who was who. Instead, it was headed by a group photo and a list of names in alphabetical order. Retrieving a notebook and pad, tongue trapped between his teeth, he began to jot each one down.

Bazile, Britney.

Blackwelder, Maurice.

Calcagni, Jere.

Cushing, Solomon.

Deems, Bernard.

Donovan, Sally.

Eakin, Lester.

Fannon, Dante.

Fonte, Rico.

Haydelle, Neil.

Highfill, Abram.

Karl, Jeremiah.

Keely, Valentine.

Lestrade, Gregory.

Maston, Antone.

Moran, Sebastian.

Morlock, Markus.

Ostler, Leo.

Palma, Darnell.

Pasch, Ferdinand.

Rowen, Dane.

Seitz, Stewart.

Zimmerman, Leslie.

As he went, Jim crossed out those he knew it wasn't, including the captain and the assistant captain (Lestrade and Zimmerman) as well as the three females shown in the photograph (Bazile, Donovan, and Zimmerman). Next went those he had encountered at school (Eakin, Karl, Maston, Rowen, and Seitz) and those with foreign names that simply couldn't be his mystery man (Calcagni and Fonte). Frowning, he held the list up at eye-level and read the list silently.

Blackwelder, Maurice.

Cushing, Solomon.

Deems, Bernard.

Fannon, Dante.

Haydelle, Neil.

Highfill, Abram.

Keely, Valentine.

Moran, Sebastian.

Morlock, Markus.

Ostler, Leo.

Palma, Darnell.

Pasch, Ferdinand.

Jim released an exasperated sigh. Twelve. A round dozen of candidates. Well, they couldn't all go unmentioned online. He returned to Facebook and punched in each one in turn. Only three of the boys didn't have an account. Fannon, Moran, and Ostler. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, his fingers hovered over the keys. What now?

He glanced over at the picture, and it hit him. The sister! How could he have forgotten about the sister? Cursing his own stupidity, Jim plugged in each surname on the website, looking for mentions of… Ah. The swim team.

There, grinning from her spot next to Carl Powers, was the slender girl from the picture. Jim glanced down through the names, and sure enough: Clara Moran. He slammed the lid shut and scrambled for the notepad, circling Moran, Sebastian rather inelegantly before tossing it aside and hugging his phone to his chest with a grin, staring at the ceiling.

Oh, Sebby! his mind purred. You have no idea what's in store!

Many miles away, in the more ragged part of town, a private young man lay in a rickety bed with a thin sheet pulled over him as a shiver of unknown origins traveled down his spine.


	5. Chapter Four

_**Mentions of child abuse. Still not in detail.**_

* * *

Harry chewed frantically, narrowing her eyes as a familiar blonde head walked from the cafeteria with a tray of nuggets and pretzels, head dipped as he conversed with the pretty brunette next to him. Heads turned as he passed, but a dark-haired young man in a rugby jacket waved them off, helping to usher them from the cafeteria without loss of limb. She stabbed at her pasta viciously, glaring daggers as though it had personally molested her.

Didn't take him long to make friends, she thought sarcastically. The kid's fucked up and socially stunted, and he makes friends before you. Way to go, Harriet.

She hadn't wanted to move in the first place. She was happy where they were, had friends, was actually doing decently at school, getting to know Jimmy and all his strange little quirks. For the first time in ages, she was truly happy, and then Johnny had to come back and ruin it all with his sad little sob story about needing some time off to mend himself. And what about me, you cowardly prick? What about your sister? Do you even know what happened after you left? Do you even care?

Okay, that last one wasn't fair. John cared, John always cared. That's why he had to leave, he said, because he cared too much and wasn't strong enough to put up with it. When Harry petulantly demanded what she was supposed to do, he only gave her a sad smile and reminded her that she was the stronger of the two. She didn't let anything get to her, while he couldn't help but take everything too seriously. A career was his only way out of this downward spiral, he had said. There was no other way for him to survive.

And maybe he was right. Maybe he was too weak to face Father the same way she could, at least at the time. Maybe he wouldn't be alive anymore if he hadn't taken Mr. Turner's offer. Maybe, if things had stayed the same after he left, Harry wouldn't be having those same doubts about continuing her own life. But things hadn't stayed the same. Father got worse when Johnny left, and she was determined that her brother not know the truth behind what inspired her aloof nature, made sure to hide her drinking habits from him so he had no reason to suspect.

And when Johnny returned, so had the memories. It was astounding just how much he looked like father, eyen had the man's cobalt-blue eyes, even if they were the shape of Mum's. He had grown while he was gone, looked the part of a man despite the characteristic Watson height-defect. He'd seen a lot, too, she could see it in his eyes. But the last thing she needed was to start pitying the brother she was supposed to be mad at. Lock it away, forget your concern, worry about yourself just like he did. Don't melt down because he gives you that look, because he's trying to do everything to make you happy. It's too late for that. It's too late to make you happy.

Jimmy has tried to approach her about it, but she just yelled at him and told him to never try to discuss John with her again. She didn't care about whatever it was that made him this way, didn't care about the distinctly broken look he got in his eyes when he thought no one was watching. It was a look a mourning, a look of pure sadness. It took all she had not to go over to him and wrap him in a tight hug that he'd likely shove out of anyway. It was hard to remember that Johnny was no longer the timid child he was when he left. He no longer needed protection, and even tried to protect her now. Stupid men and their gentlemanly nature. She didn't need protecting.

Harry was pulled from her thoughts by a colored girl with tight curls sitting down in the seat across from her, followed closely by a younger girl with a blue-tipped blonde fringe and purple lipstick. She narrowed her eyes at the latter briefly before turning to face Sally Donovan, suspicion in her eyes. "What are you doing over here? Someone else trying to have my steal something of Johnny's for them? What do you have to offer that's unique, hm? Money? Booze? Drugs?" Her eyes flickered over to the younger girl, who held her gaze with icy blue eyes. "Sex, perhaps? Because that would probably be your best bet to get anything out of me. Otherwise, you can piss off."

Sally simply studied her silently, a small smile pulling at her lips. "Actually, no. No offense, but I'm not that big of a fan of your brother, and Brit and I thought you looked lonely over here and decided to keep you company. Isn't that right, Brit?"

Brit nodded without a word, and Harry noticed she donned a rugby tee beneath her creamy blue sweatshirt. Quiet type, an athlete, she thought keenly. How nice. She gave Brit a small smile, which was returned, albeit nervously, with a small shake of her head and a meaningful eye flicker over to her companion, then to her lap. Harry cursed her luck, sagging back into her seat. Closeted and crushing on Donovan. Just my damn luck.

"Oh, well, thanks… I guess." She cleared her throat loudly and went back to her lunch. After all, in her experience, no one had pure motives. At least not entirely.

Harry could feel Sally's gaze boring into her, but she refused to look up. If Miss Uptight I-Don't-Like-Your-Brother wanted to waste her time sitting here with a good-for-nothing manic-depressive alcoholic, that was fine by her. She just shouldn't expect her to actually initiate conversation. If Sally wanted to talk about something, she could broach the subject on her own thank you very much.

Finally, Donovan seemed to register this fact, and she coughed loudly. Harry dropped her fork, swallowing deliberately before looking up, vague irritation in her pale blue eyes, eyebrows raised. "Can I help you?"

Sally leaned forward slightly, and Harry compensated by leaning back and crossing her arms with a meaningful look. Donovan's lips turned down into a frown, but she conceded, sighing a sitting back slightly. "Well, somebody's touchy," she muttered, corner of her lip twitching slightly as if she didn't know what she thought about Harry's undeniable attitude. "Look, I just wanted to warn you that Irene Adler's going to try to recruit you, possibly in more ways than one by the way she was talking."

Harry frowned. "Adler? Who's she?"

Sally leaned back with a slight smirk, apparently convinced she had Harry's full and undivided attention. Don't get smug, you lousy bitch, I can still punch that smirk right off your face. "Thirteenth year, seventeen years old, the boys call her the Woman," she confided snidely. "Apparently she's a pretty good shag, knows what people like. It's funny, though, because she herself is lesbian, in an open relationship with her girlfriend. Uses sex to get places, that one. More importantly, though, she's the head of the drama department here at Reichenbach. Apparently she thinks if your brother is good, you might have some untapped potential yourself."

Here we go. "I don't do acting, Donovan," Harry informed her casually. "That's Johnny's thing; I don't have the patience, myself. I'm more of a 'do something I can right now and to hell with any long-term projects' kind of girl. So you can tell Adler to shove her dreams of 'finding' a new talent where the sun doesn't shine."

"Well, I like this girl already."

Harry looked up to find a sharp-looking young woman with blood red lipstick and monstrous nails smiling down at her, eyes narrowing when she glanced over to Donovan and Britney, blatant disapproval in her expressing. She tsked delicately. "A shame, Donovan, that your little rugby friends have weakness just like the rest of them. It barely took a word to get them to tell me you were coming over to put Miss Watson off me, and that just won't do, will it?" A deadly smile curled her lips, "Don't cross me, Donovan. And Britney, darling, perhaps you should find yourself some like minded friends." Adler gave her a meaningful look, and Brit's cheeks went pink. Donovan, however, didn't seem to notice.

"What the hell are you implying?" she called angrily, a few heads turning minutely. Must be a regular occurrence, then, Sally Donovan throwing a fit, Harry mused. No one seems surprised in the slightest. Somehow, it wasn't news, only a confirmation of what she already suspected.

Irene shrugged, still donning that slight smirk of hers. "Nothing illicit, I assure you. Your friend over here, might do well to allow herself to admit that fact." She gave Donovan's companion a simpering look. "Isn't that right, Britney?"

Britney's face went red. "Piss off, Adler; you don't know what you're talking about." She stood up swiftly, tugging on Donovan's arm. "Come on, Sally. It's Harriet's decision in the end."

Damn right it is, Harry thought, watching silently as Brit offered her a small smile over her shoulder even as she tromped away with a fuming Sally Donovan. Irene watched as well, shaking her head and tsking as though forgetting Harry was even there.

"She's in deep, that one. I tried to have a word with her a few times, but she just shuts us out. Then I got Kate to hazard an attempt; she's better at this kind of thing, has more tact than I do." Irene looked down at her pink polished nails, almost bored. "Still refused to acknowledge the truth out loud. Pathetic, she is."

Harry didn't respond. Personally, Britney Bazile was likely being intelligent, especially if she wasn't entirely sure how she would be received. She herself probably should have shown more caution, and then, perhaps, the unspeakable would never have come to pass. But, no, she had to be loud and proud, condemning herself to hell so long as her father was alive. Even though he was dead, she was still suffering, still had dreams, flashes, memories of terrible crimes, crimes that she dare not name, even in the dark confinement of her own head. That would make it real, thinking the word. She just couldn't do it.

"What do you want?"

Irene frowned, looking down at her. "Did Donovan not tell you, or did I misjudge the situation entirely? You know exactly what I'm here for. An answer."

Harry sighed. "I'll tell you what I told Donovan. I don't do acting. Period. That's solely Johnny's thing, and-"

"What if there was some other role you could take?" Irene interrupted.

Looking up, Harry frowned, not quite catching her meaning. Did she wish to get her on the crew or something? Or was this just a roundabout way of getting what she wanted? She studied Irene's sharply handsome face, a cunning in her eyes that she was all too familiar with. She raised one neatly trimmed eyebrow. "Well?"

"I don't understand what you're asking of me."

Sighing dramatically, Irene sat on the bench next to her, leaning forward. Harry made a face, but didn't lean back, all too aware that Donovan was still watching from her usual table, waiting for her to refuse. "Look, Harriet, I like your attitude, so I'm going to be straight up with you. I've been working for years to get the drama department noticed, but the fact is, we're a pathetic little school in the middle of nowhere. No one's ever even heard of Reichenbach, but you, you could be our ticket." Her blue eyes were wide and sparkling, and there Harry could see years of hopes and dreams. "Imagine, the sister of John Watson helping out the lesser in a backroads town. You wouldn't even have to do anything if you didn't want to; fake it 'til you make it, that's what I like to say."

"One problem with that," Harry expressed cooly. "I'll never actually make it."

"Then I guess you'll just have to fake it forever, then." Irene winked.

Harry slumped low in her seat, contemplating the proposal. It would get her out of the house a bit, distract her with the added bonus of annoying Johnny, as she very well knew it would. On the other hand, it was doing something for someone else, and was she herself actually going to be doing anything, on that note? She made a face, and Irene sighed.

"There are other jobs that just the acting, you know. We could find something for you to do, I'm certain. And you know what they say about people in theater," she gave a meaningful wink. "I can confirm that, in the right circumstances, it's all true. At least pop down for the rehearsal next week; you're here just in time for the pre-audition overviews, as we spend the first quarter with small skits before we decide. We're doing an original production this year, written and directed by yours truly. Plenty of roles, plenty of jobs… You could benefit us greatly, Harriet."

"It's Harry. And that raises the notion, you don't even know me."

"Oh, darling, I know enough," Irene simpered, placing a folder down in front of her. Harry looked at it suspiciously. "Just look that over, drop in one day if you decide to help us out. I'd be much obliged." She started away before turning back. "Also, you're Jim Moriarty's sister, are you not?" When Harry nodded, wondering what the hell Jimmy had done this time, Irene slipped an envelope out of her pocket. "He told me not to read this until I was in private. Any idea what it is?"

Harry frowned at the envelope. She was no stranger to Jimmy's odd ways, how they came off as entirely too creepy and over the top, but it never seemed that he actually meant anything by it. Yet she had no doubt that if Irene opened that envelope in public, Jimmy would find some manner of revenge, go on one of the sadistic streaks his father chastised him for. Though she was curious, she knew it was for the best that Irene wait to open it.

"No idea, unless he's trying to engage you in one of the mystery games he's so fond of. It's happened before."

Irene looked wary, but she only tucked the envelope away without a word. From behind her, Jimmy was watching from the corner table. Their eyes locked, and Harry felt an odd shiver run down her spine.

* * *

 _ **Next chapter will be either John or Sherlock depending on which scene I decide should come first chronologically. One after that might be Sebby responding to Jim's summons.**_


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